Page 6 of Dirty Rotten Cheating Husband

I yanked at the glove box, and, finally, I did find something.

Tumbling out into my hands was. . . a pair of panties.

A thong, actually.

A lacy, scarlet thong.

I stared at it in incomprehension.

Was this a fucking Lifetime movie?

It wasn’t mine.

Couldn’t possibly be mine.

Then where the fuck. . .

My blood ran cold, and turned and headed directly for his home office.

Normally I rarely went into Grayson’s office. Not because it was forbidden, or anything like that. Just because everything my husband did was so neat and tidy, almost minimalist, that there was nothing interesting in there.

He had showed me his work laptop once—all a bunch of boring-looking accounting programs and various spreadsheets with numbers that all ran together.

When I raced in there, the panties still ridiculously clutched in my first, I forced my fingers to open, the silky garment falling onto the thick cream-colored carpet.

I was way past pretending to be self-confident and assured now, yanking at his desk drawers, spilling their contents on the floor.

Not much in there really.

Then I turned to the file cabinets, and when I pulled them open to rifle through the paperwork, my jaw dropped in astonishment.

What I had assumed were file folders organized with mathematical precision were just. . . stacks of nothing. Stacks and stacks of blank papers, neatly placed between tabs with different years.

Why the fuck would you go to that kind of effort? When even do that at all? What was the point of it? There was nothing incriminating on them. They were literally pages and pages of blank paper.

Unless, of course, you wanted it to look like you had years of tax returns, but didn’t actually have any tax returns, because you knew that shit was boring as fuck and no one would have even the slightest interest in digging through them.

Then something fell out.

A phone.

Maybe it was just an old one. But it didn’t look old.

A second phone.

Oh, fuck.

It looked shiny and new and I picked it up.

Immediately the phone demanded the passcode, and the panic pumping through my veins increased.

Well, this was fucking new, wasn’t it?

I tried the date of our wedding.

Nope.

My birthdate.

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